Cold Skies: A Psychological Thriller

by Zoe Drake

  It all hit Gareth in a rush. The ladder, the pressure of the fireman’s arm around him, the noise of the motors below as they telescoped the ladder downwards, back on itself. The commotion of the people below him, the pedestrians of Trinity Street, drawn to the scene like ants to sugar.

  “We’ve got you now,” the voice said. “Try to stay calm.”

  *

  “I fainted.”

  He said it more in self-defense, than anything else. The police officers had been with Gareth in the hospital for an uncomfortably long time, sitting next to him while he lay in bed. The questions had gently veered away from Gareth’s health, towards his… personal responsibility.

  The officers were a young man and a young woman, probably younger than Gareth. They were well built but slim, the man blond and the woman with short sandy hair. They had pleasant, open faces. As they sat with him in the private room at Addenbrooke’s, the calm, reassuring conversation gradually became not so reassuring.

  They were particularly insistent about the camera.

  The large Ultra-pan camera had indeed gone off like a bomb when it hit the pavement of Trinity Street. Shards of lens and camera-parts had fired off like shrapnel. By some miracle, none of the shoppers and pedestrians had been hit. Nobody was injured. There had been damage, however. To the windows of the Porter’s Lodge, to the wooden gate of the college… to a nearby Range Rover, which the camera parts had penetrated like gunshot. Not the glass, either. The parts had gone though the bodywork.

  The police officers had been very anxious to know what it was Gareth was doing up there that had been so dangerous. Wasn’t there a certain lack of care involved? Risks, perhaps, that had been needlessly taken? Hints of criminal negligence?

  “I fainted,” Gareth said once more. “I’ve been receiving treatment for injuries.”

  “A head injury?” asked the man keenly.

  “I was in a car accident a few weeks back. I was right here in this hospital, in fact. You can check that. There’ve been… after-effects.”

  “If that’s the case, sir,” asked the woman, “wasn’t it a bad idea for you to go up on the roof in the first place?”

  “I guess so. But I need the work… I asked to go up there. It was my fault. Don’t blame the agency I work for.”

  “Oh yes, the agency,” said the man. “Mr. Lynval Price. We spoke to him about half an hour ago.”

  “He was very insistent on seeing you,” the female said, “but we explained that he couldn’t.”

  “He was probably on his way to stick that broken camera up my arse,” Gareth said morosely.

  “He was not a happy camper, sir.”

  “Steam was coming out of his ears, sir. Nevertheless, he was mostly worried about your well-being.”

  Gareth raised his head from the pillow. “There’s one thing I’d like to ask you. Was I… alone on the roof?”

  The two officers exchanged glances.

  “Why do you ask that, sir? You said yourself you were working alone.”

  “I thought I saw someone,” Gareth said cautiously. “When I was stuck on the skylight I looked up, and there were three figures standing there. I thought they were workmen or something. I called for help, but they… ran off.”

  Another exchange of glances.

  “The only persons on the roof, as far as we know, were two of the porters. They went up there after the camera hit the pavement outside and some debris went through the lodge window. They went up to the roof, but they couldn’t reach you. You’d slipped too far down the tiles.”

  “One porter did say you were shouting something. It was quite incoherent, he said. Then again, he was too rattled to pay much attention to it.”

  “It must have been them that I saw,” Gareth said quietly, closing his eyes. “Thank you. Oh God… I’m sorry. What a mess…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Thursday, April 18th

  There was no answer at his father’s house when Gareth called from the hospital. On a hunch, he rang his brother.

  “Hello, Paul?”

  There was a slight hesitation before the reply. “Gareth?”

  “Yes, it’s me. The police said they called you.”

  “They did. Gareth, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m not injured, but… how much did they tell you?”

  “The fire services rescued you from where you were, which was – hanging from a roof, they said. You nearly fell off one of the colleges.” Another pause. “What happened, Gareth?”

  “I don’t really know myself. I think I blacked out during an assignment.”

  “You blacked out again? It’s – I thought you’d – oh hang on, Dad wants a word.”

  “Gareth?” the air around the telephone receiver was suddenly sawn in half by his father’s harsh breathing.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “Gareth, what the hell’s going on?”

  He stumbled though his tale yet again.

  “Right. Now listen, lad,” said his father. “I think what you’d better do is get back here sharpish. There’s no point in hanging around Cambridge now.” A short bark of laughter. “Sorry, that wasn’t meant to be a joke.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You’d best settle up as best you can and get back home.”

  Gareth struggled for words. “What are you talking about, Dad?”

  “So’s we can take care of you. Isn’t that bloody obvious?”

  “Dad, I don’t know what you’re going on about. Let me explain – I was doing a photo shoot on the roof of the college, and the height, the vertigo, it must have got to me. It was a bad idea going up there, it was a mistake, okay, but I’m all right…”

  “Bad idea? It was a bad idea leaving you on your own. Get back up here, that’s all.”

  “No, Dad, I said it’s all right. There’s things I have to do here. Things I have to take care of.”

  “What things?” his father snapped. “What things? Sell bloody photographs? Stay up all night in the middle of nowhere? Mooch around with your weirdo friends?”

  An image suddenly appeared in Gareth’s mind. Mum, nodding at him, and smiling. She stretched out her arms wide, to give him a hug.

  “I have to go, Dad,” he said.

  “Don’t wait too long,” his father warned. “Your brother can get down there, as soon as I’ve squared it with him. You’d best speak to him before–”

  But Gareth had already put down the receiver.

  Gareth called a cab and rode, silently, back to his Oakington house.

  When he arrived, Caroline’s car was already parked outside, and she got out when she saw him leave the taxi.

  They walked into the kitchen together, as shyly as if they were in a stranger’s house, looking around at the objects on the tabletops and shelves.

  For want of something to do, Gareth filled the kettle and switched it on.

  “Were you injured?” Caroline finally asked.

  His hand moved toward his face. “I’ve got a few bruises and scratches, but that’s all.”

  He sat down on a kitchen chair and sighed. “I’ve let you down. I’ve let everyone down, and I-”

  “I can’t do this anymore, Gareth.” Her voice cut across his own, like a knife.

  He lifted his head with an immense feeling of déjà vu. He’d seen this before… with Dawn. He knew what was coming next. His heart began to surge, to pound in his chest, as if he were back on the roof of Gonville & Caius.

  “I can’t go through all this with you,” she said. “It’ll be the self-pity now. You’ll be all forgiving and helpful, and I’ll pick up the pieces, and you’ll say everything will be all right. Until the next time you go off the rails, and…”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Gareth stated woodenly. “You’re going to say that we need a break, because I’m putting too much pressure on you, and you’ve got your own life, with your own problems.
” He lowered his head. “Is that how it goes?”

  “It’s not only me, Gareth.” Her voice had quietened a little, but she hadn’t calmed down. In fact, she looked even more intense. “It’s Jenny.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with her?” He stood up, and at the same time, the kettle began to scream. He flicked the switch off and let it settle. “Has she had an accident?”

  A snort, and a shake of her head. “She’s not the one who had the accident.” She caught herself, and looked him in the eye, “Sorry Gareth, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Then how did you mean it?”

  Caroline took a deep breath. “She’s talking to people who aren’t there. She’s always done that a bit, but it’s nearly all the time now. Almost as much as she talks to me.”

  Gareth sat down again and stared at her. “A lot of kids have imaginary friends, Caroline. Especially little girls.”

  “She’s only been doing it this much since you started going on about UFOs and visitors from the skies, Gareth, and it’s getting worse. You talking about invisible forces, it’s giving her ideas, and it’s not healthy. I’m not…”

  Then the tears came, slipping out of her eyes like she didn’t notice them, with her making no effort to brush them away.

  “Gareth, I don’t want you to see Jenny any more.”

  He put his head in his hands. He had a sudden image of Jenny in Caroline’s house, playing with her angels, talking to them, sitting down to tea with them.

  What was she doing right now?

  What if she could see her mother right now? What would she say?

  Maybe she already knew. Maybe her ears were burning. That’s what Mum would say… used to say. My ears are burning. That means there must be someone talking about me.

  “Don’t be too hard on her, Caroline,” he said finally. “What if those things… what if they’re not imaginary? Have you thought about that? What if she has some kind of… special gift?”

  “I don’t want her to be special!” Caroline screamed with such force that Gareth flinched away from her. “I just want her to be normal! You never give up, do you? You never bloody give up.”

  She stood there, her cheeks stained with tears and smeared foundation, one hand – the hand holding her car keys – lifted up towards him. She held them like a knife, pointing towards his face, the keys shaking as her knuckles whitened.

  Gareth sat absolutely still.

  He suddenly realized that she’d held the keys in her hand for the entire time she’d been talking. He sat there, watching them glitter with a piercing clarity. She hadn’t put them away after she came in. She hadn’t meant to stay. Only come to deliver her message and leave.

  Then he registered her absence.

  He opened his eyes, although he didn’t remember closing them. He was looking at an empty kitchen.

  There was still a glittering in the air, like the reflection of the sunlight off her keys. There was the sound outside of a car driving away.

  So that’s it then, Gareth thought. He stood up. He stretched out his arms and flexed his fingers, experimentally. He rocked back on his heels, raised his arms, pointing his hands toward the ceiling, flexing his muscles.

  She’s gone.

  It was almost a relief, in a way. He wouldn’t be able to hurt her anymore. He wouldn’t see her cry and know he was responsible anymore. Now the only miserable one was him.

  “You get on with your life,” he said aloud, to the empty kitchen. “I’ll be all right. You get on with your life. You take care of yourself.”

  But Jenny… he would never see her again. Will she miss me?

  Will she cry, will she ask her Mum, “Where’s Gareth? Why can’t I see him?”

  He stopped staring at the wall and turned to look out of the kitchen window.

  “Oh Christ, what have I done?” he said aloud.

  As if to provide the answer, there came a knock at the door. The back door. Merely inches away from where Gareth stood.

  He flinched and drew back a couple of steps.

  Through the frosted glass of the window in the middle of the door, he saw no shadow.

  He fumbled with the key in the door, opened it at last. Leaning out into the cool air, he stared at an empty path.

  A second knock came from behind him, this time from what sounded like the dining room window. A small fist, rapping on the glass – and a high, childish giggle.

  “Jenny?” he called.

  Gareth suddenly knew what would happen. He would go to the dining room window, while whoever it was would run around to the back door, and knock again. Instead of that, he walked out through the porch, turned the corner of the house and scanned the back garden. Everything looked clean in the golden light, the sunlight that coaxed all the perfume out of the garden, blowing it gently in his face.

  What had happened?

  Was it Jenny?

  Had she been in the car all along, and stayed behind when her Mum left?

  Had she run away from Caroline?

  Keeping a wary eye on the garden Gareth backed away and re-entered the house.

  Of course.

  While he’d been in the garden, they’d done it.

  They’d rearranged everything. Changed the scenery. The light was brighter, the smell of the house was different, and the sound had been turned down.

  And she was waiting for him in the kitchen.

  She sat, swinging her legs, in the same chair where he’d been sitting. She was looking at him in the way she looked at him in his dreams. A mixture of curiosity, impatience, and sorrow.

  Gareth paused at the doorway, afraid to enter, feeling the strangeness wash over him. The hairs all over his skin prickled, and something burned in the pit of his stomach.

  “What time is it, Mr. Mann-ing?” she asked, in a singsong voice.

  Lifting his arm was like trying to pull it through mud. He looked at the hands on his watch; fixed, immobile, useless.

  “Ten past four,” he read out from the watch, his speech slurred and his tongue thick in his mouth.

  The girl’s expression changed to severe disappointment, and she shook her head gravely. “No, it isn’t. It’s eleven-thirty.”

  Gareth managed with great difficulty to use the muscles in his neck, to turn his head and look out of the kitchen window. The light painted his garden in soft, melancholy hues, adding things to his property that had not been there before. Although there was no wind, he had the impression of rapid movement, something whirring and spinning through the air, something that could be felt but not seen.

  “You’re not doing very well, are you?” the girl said firmly, but also gently.

  Gareth said nothing but continued to stare out of the window. The leaves of the trees were colors that he had so often tried to capture in his photographs. What season was it? Was it still spring? How could it be the spring, with colors like that?

  Distracted by more movement, he turned around. The girl had stood up and now held a book in her hands. He recognized it as one of his reference books from the living room bookcase. She flicked through it, stopped close to the end, and then put the open hardcover book with exaggerated care on the kitchen tabletop.

  She tilted up her face to give him a sympathetic smile, and walked silently into the hallway.

  And then Gareth was sitting in the same chair again, the sound of Caroline slamming the door still echoing off the kitchen walls, the reflections of the light flashing off her keys blurring his vision.

  Oh my God, how long have I been out this time?

  He looked at his watch. Ten minutes past four. He stood up, feeling the cold sweat stick damply to his armpits, his crotch. The pressure built up in his forehead and moved with him as he peered out of the kitchen window, opened the back door.

  He was alone.

  He closed the door, turned around and there was the book, on the tabletop.

  Open at the same page she’d left it
.

  He snatched it up and began to read:

  “Bohr paraphrased Einstein’s summary of the situation as follows: ‘In any attempt of a pictorial representation of the photon we would thus meet with the difficulty: to be obliged to say, on the one hand, that the photon always chooses one of the two ways and, on the other hand, that it behaves as if it had passed both ways.’ Here is an archetypal instance of wave-particle duality.”

  He could read no more because he’d dropped the book onto the kitchen tiles and had stuffed his hand into his mouth to block his screaming. Despite it all, he still cared what the neighbors thought, but he couldn’t stop the screams, they’d been inside him too long and now they were coming out, the same way as the tears were squeezing out of his eyes, squeezing out onto his face as he folded up, his knees hitting the kitchen tiles, as the floor came up to try to muzzle the sound of the screams…

  *

  The shadows spread out across the tiles.

  They came and went in waves, appearing and disappearing at the whim of the fickle fading April sunlight, but growing thicker, denser. As the evening approached, the shadows marched in formation toward the table.

  Gareth watched them from where he crouched under the table. He watched the defenses of the patches of sunlight crumble beneath the strategic advance of the darkness. He gripped the knife firmly. The sweat from his palm made the handle slippery, and his fingers were cramped and stiff from a grip that refused to relax.

  I have to be ready.

  I have to be ready for when they come for me.

  I’m alive and I’m going to stay that way.

  Something changed outside; a subtle interplay of light and displaced air, the brute weight of a stopped car outside his driveway, the footsteps of an intruder on the gravel.

  Here they come.

  He heard the sharp metallic slap of something in the hall: the sound of the letterbox being lifted up.